


Papilio Penitence

by Eskiwen



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Dreams, Gen, Symbolism, and the other knows everything, fan theory fic, one person doesn't know anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 04:36:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20615096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eskiwen/pseuds/Eskiwen
Summary: Based on a fan theory and connected to 'Morpho Menelaus' by Shahnaz.---Every night, it repeats.And every night, he plays his role.It is an unneeded reminder of what he can never forget.





	Papilio Penitence

Servants don't dream.

This was an unconquerable law of the universe - of being something connected to something greater, tossing away their humanity for the sake of becoming heroes.

\- _Ah, but he wasn't a hero, was he? He wasn't even a Servant who should have ever existed, placed just because his Saint Graph is -_

No, Servants don't dream.

Yet, he does.

But the dreams aren't his.

* * *

The endless rushing of the river was loud in his ears, like the rapids - like the place he lost his life.

_\- He didn't lose it, he chose to leave. All it took was letting go, and letting the water swallow him -_

Connected to his hands - were countless threads, thin spider silk stretching out into the tiny world he was in, this tiny dreaming bubble suspended in just a moment of time.

He could hear and feel Sherlock's heartbeat, as clear as day - a solid, steady thumping, close by to the flowers his thread wrapped around. All around him, a cloud of butterflies swarmed, brilliant blue concealing everything about himself.

Blue. The color of his eyes, of his own soul -

\- _It's not your soul, it never was, after all_ -

Ah. He - Sherlock - began to move again. Silently, like the goal he - Moriarty - was, he waited. Again and again, like Sisyphus damned to hell and rolling that rock forever up the hill, Sherlock would always return in his dreams to this single point.

Or...perhaps, instead, he was Beatrice waiting for Dante to reach the top of Purgatory.

...No.

He was Evil. He could never be salvation, not with what -

That bitter smell - the smell of Rue (_regret, always regret, do you regret what you did, Holmes? To me? To us?_) came forward, as the person he had been waiting for finally appeared, dripping opium-scented water.

As always, he smiled.

A sad smile, one never meant to be seen. One that could never be seen by the dreamer, never remembered.

_\- Stay innocent, Holmes. That ignorance...is what I... -_

Moving his fingers like a conductor, he covered Sherlock's eyes, seeing the man gasp - and suddenly vanish, the threads floating listlessly in the air.

The river, as always, rose to swallow him - to wipe away the face he was wearing, the face that...

-_ It's not yours, not anymore_ \- 

As the water stole his movement, his breath becoming clogged and his vision hazy, he reached forward.

Forward, towards that eternal light, forever shimmering out of reach on the surface of the water.

That light - _that_ _always - _shied away from him, because of what he _is_, flickering in his sight before the blackness overtook him.

_...I...wish..._

_..._

* * *

As always, he opens his eyes to a blank ceiling, to a wetness on his face, pooling around his eyes.

The Mastermind merely sits up, wiping away that moisture, staring ahead at the wall, thinking of nothing.

"Holmes," he says, and his voice is soft and hoarse, strangled by emotion.

"When will you stop dreaming...?"


End file.
